New Beginnings
by Novoux
Summary: There are things Shizuo realizes Izaya has been putting up with for too long. And it's all his fault, just as he starts to realize how worthless he really is. Shizaya; part one of Start Over series. Trigger warning.


They start in slow-motion auto-reverse engines rewiring connecting the lines of veins starting to protrude when no one really questions. Muscles still bulge when he heaves something around like brick walls crumbling down in the privacy of maintaining the shred of humanity dedicated to agonizing over that he's the one who's not normal and still beneath the everything left behind when people get frightened. They watch, never turning around or to look away when he gets angry but the moment he hurts himself starting as a young child and throwing a refrigerator (key word: tries) at Kasuka over one stupid cup of too many calories anyway and chocolate to stab into a broken arm. As if it's really worth it, maybe, then it counts in not ever being enough.

Roads start to crop up in the next weeks. Week one, two, three, Izaya is gone on a business trip to Russia, Shizuo gets bored and business is slow. Even with combined funds at times in pocket change Shizuo remains fiercely independent of saying no to many favors for him. Going out to lunch, he looks a little pale and no Tom, not today. No, he doesn't want the money while Izaya's gone in Russia where it's cold despite the summertime being cold even if it's not meant to be. At least his uniform covers up the solid gray patches of skin turning purple in the ashy sheen of waking up empty most mornings and using finger paint to brush back on the smile for Tom and Vorona.

He tells himself that it's okay to be sad for a little while. Not really much of a reason and he doesn't remember the first day it starts but it is the day he breaks Izaya's arm clean through the skin, feeling horrified and when they're far ahead of reversing speed he can taste the self-depreciation wallowing on his tongue like oil and vinegar. Izaya laughs as Shinra resets the bone, high on pain medications and anesthetic before they're left alone in Shinra's guest room, Shizuo taking the time to apologize in between halfhearted kisses and Izaya just laughs and pets his hair. He's not the only one that hurts in the meaning of Izaya forgetting everything _but_ the stinging swollen pain in his left arm, his dominant one, and isn't as happy the next day.

It's not like it's a major fight after Izaya spends days without speaking to Shizuo, preferring to be alone when his arm really hurts and he can't write or do much at all without aggravating it. Shizuo offers and is turned down faster than the first arguments of mutual affection and the first kiss ends in an argument of beginning a new relationship. They're both perfectly stubborn enough to fight for nothing and act as if it's for everything they have in just being able to throw things around like children. Or that's more of Shizuo's style while Izaya enacts punishment with silence. The week of silence that follows Izaya's anger is rightfully deserved: after all, Shizuo had crushed the bone when his temper flared and the shriek not as loud as it should have been but still agonized keeps ringing in his ears for weeks on end.

The thoughts begin then. First the whispers of silence ringing louder than usual when Shizuo is taking days off to make sure Izaya who wants nothing to do with him, then it's okay. The closed door to their bedroom and a cold leather couch mean more than the words left unspoken and it's okay, he thinks he deserves this entirely. It hurts some times in the chants of _monster, stupid, freak,_ emerging into thoughts that twist and hiss in his ears, knowing they're not right when he hears _worthless, stupid fucking beast, ugly monster,_ but they turn up the volume on repeat and he lets himself wallow. Izaya isn't there to listen to the stupid complaints and if he is Shizuo would never tell of petty things, knowing his own lows of self-esteem receding through the hardwood floor on colder nights and bare feet. Shivers down his spine and goosebumps rising when he thinks he knows what this is.

It really is his fault. He knows it is.

Slowly enough crawling on the floor snail speed burning and fizzling under a maze of salt with no entrance or exit Shizuo finds himself talking to Izaya once again, never apologizing but tentative on terms of going through physical therapy and his arm, just a simple break, Shinra says, is healing and will be fine. Nothing to worry about besides Izaya's melodramatic attitude in hating his cast and physical therapy while happily calling Shizuo a monster in full playfulness and Shizuo can't decide if it's him that's messed up when he can only think they're serious insults or if his brain is actually filling itself with false memories soaking of angry expressions from Izaya. They don't sleep together anymore since the incident when Izaya is grumpy and sore and Shizuo is too tired to look at himself in the mirror and decide that today isn't a day to try. Maybe not tomorrow or the next week. However long it takes to stop hurting.

Izaya doesn't seem to notice, and it's perfectly okay after the nights of being allowed back into the bedroom, Izaya keeping his distance with a spare pillow propped for his arm and Shizuo finds himself craving to reach out and pull the slender body—he really is _so_ tiny it's a wonder why he doesn't break—into his for the long night ahead because he can't seem to sleep often. Whether or not he works Tom starts to frown whenever he sees Shizuo and it isn't the best thing to be reminded of coming to and from work or meeting up with Izaya for a lunch break and brushing hands or knees when they're in public. Quiet places because Izaya likes to watch and the first thought that comes to mind is wondering if he isn't enough when Izaya says he loves all humans.

...But not monsters.

Silly, he thinks, after knowing Izaya in a relationship it's been hazardous and dangerously fun with sex and love and teasing rolled into one so fast and the days of downfall cuddling in chairs, kind of, when Izaya allows it and Shizu-chan is just a big teddy bear. Just as puffy and fat as one too—where does that come from? Why would Izaya start making fun of his weight, being at a healthy one and usually insulting his intelligence? No, no, it doesn't matter as long as Izaya can get a laugh from riling Shizuo up and then hide away from him in nights where Shizuo finally gives in to maybe not holding the tiny body to his, tracing bones in his shoulder and down his shoulder blades that it's supposed to be a joke. Really just a silly joke that involves his stupidity just as normal. Izaya's looking skinnier from being incapacitated weeks and weeks before.

They manifest like nightmares, the thoughts. Growing stronger and louder and noisier either at work at home with Izaya or alone in his room, taking up the habit more often than normal when Izaya or anyone else seems to notice. It's okay that Celty is busy and she doesn't need to hear that he feels anxious just being around Izaya and not using common sense to tell him because hasn't he already done enough—Izaya doesn't comment anyway. Izaya's busy at his keyboard or prancing around, emerging back in the humans he loves so much Shizuo wonders if he's in a relationship of one side and all take.

Bad things like that and they're worthless when they serve to make him feel worse. A slight depression period, normal, he knows, becomes something longer than two weeks and before he knows it's a month and Izaya has to leave for Russia for a month. Fast forward up to then of slow self-imposed isolation crowding himself in silence when the thoughts are nonsensical but he can't seem to turn them off in daylight and they're worse at night. Izaya raises an eyebrow when Shizuo pushes him away from another offer of sex and asks if he's been eating too much lately. Shizuo laughs and it's real when it's so desperately broken and hollow that yes, he has been, and maybe it's time to lay off some things. A little bit at a time and perhaps Izaya won't call him a stuffed teddy bear and as worthless as one.

There are some times he misses Izaya's touch when they're together, but it's normal in counting the times he gets up and sits in a different loveseat instead of at the couch with Izaya, not interested in the last days of being together to cuddle or kiss or do much of anything. Being like this in almost mind-numbing emptiness the feelings are heavy and hollow but they're dull enough to ignore and finger paint with his own beastly hands in the mirror before Izaya wakes up. If he pulls at the corners of his mouth and forgets that behind the teeth that bare like fangs and deadly canines ready to rip and swallow down every last bite of whatever humanity is left, he looks normal. Normal to Celty, normal to Shinra on rare days of the doctor saying hello, and normal to Tom and Vorona and no, he would rather get done with work instead of go out. Izaya's busy so there aren't any invitations, though it's not like he would accept any at the moment when the mention of food sours his appetite.

Izaya leaves and they don't kiss. Shizuo sees him off at the airport and not even a hug—Izaya hates public displays of affection—and Celty drops by on the long walk home after the plane takes off and Shizuo doesn't pretend the pang in his heart of not saying goodbye or sorry or whatever is catching in his throat is bearable. Celty asks, rolling up to him if he would like to get dinner, saying her awkward apology (just save it when it's not worth the effort) for Izaya's leaving and it hurts to talk about it so he paints a smile, remembering the motions going through his fingers and no teeth. Ugly ugly ugly teeth that can't be seen by a human even if she is a faerie of death it's not fair to her to make her feel like a monster when he by far is the one who competes with dragons for the monsters of fairy tales and no princess left.

Celty looks confused, holding up her PDA and asking what's wrong because he seems down lately. At first he's a little choked, unsure and confused as to how she's supposed to guess these things so easily when it comes that he can be read like a book and he really is so _stupid_ for crashing his train of thoughts derailing into a waterfall and wearing a heart of a monster on his sleeve as if the blood can be wiped off when he's done. Instead he elects to reassure that yes, he's fine, and no, he's not really hungry today but thank you anyway for the offer, maybe next time he'll be a little better and his appetite won't make him seem like such an intolerable beast, a little stuffed with nothings and extra space taking up the bed.

No wonder, he muses to himself grimly as Celty types her next answer, Izaya doesn't sleep curling into him any longer. Nor does he rest his head on the frail bones of Izaya, treating him like a doll subconsciously when in love and hatefully so, in Izaya's words, and pushing himself away from the offers to cuddle or kiss or revel in how tiny Izaya really is—truly this is better without sleeping together. He loves him, as stupid as it sounds and embarrassing in public but something he can't hide when he _wants_ to sleep with Izaya and he wants the taste of skin and kisses and warm comfortable weight of Izaya's arms around him or pulling Izaya into his chest. It's supposed to feel better and these days nothing works more than solitude and forgetting the last time he's eaten anything from three days to eight when he falls ill.

Celty's parting words haunt him, however. He can't bring himself to look away or find himself without the phrase spelled on her PDA and he dismisses her with a shake and nod of his head when of course he's perfectly okay and if he's lonely he'll see her soon sometime and they can go hang out. It doesn't matter now, just tired. Needs more sleep when Izaya likes to keep him awake and in reality he doesn't say the truth that he misses feeling Izaya against him and he craves it the most.

[I hope you're okay, Shizuo.]

In reality, he really isn't. It doesn't take much more to admit that but he nods-frowns-shakes his head that he's perfectly fine—smile. On the silent way home his stomach growls and he breathes deeply to ignore it until it finally fades away.

All he can think about, collapsing on the couch and bringing his feet up, is going to sleep and preferably not alone as per usual even if Izaya is only on the other side of the bed.

When the night comes it feels even worse by tenfold, remembering how the touch of Izaya is only a foot away and now miles and miles away on a plane probably not thinking of a stupid _fat_ —what?— monster with ugly teeth and too many extra stuffings to keep him heavy with guilt for one simple arm break turning into a mess of things. Izaya's busy and he'll not text like Izaya asks him to when Russia is busy and he won't have time.

Sarcasm is only realistic when Shizuo nods, watching him go repeating in his head over and over again the same night he tries to get sleep but comes up short with no sleep behind his eyelids and the room is not warm enough to keep him happy, no matter how many extra bedsheets he plants on the bed the comfortable weight of sleeping with someone else is a sensation he's too used to and maybe it's time to wean himself anyway.

Izaya doesn't need clingy hurt and stupid emotions frustrating whatever they have and Shizuo isn't willing to risk it despite that not meaning that it doesn't hurt when he wants more than he should have because Shizuo is an ugly monster fit for legends and caution tape, not stop sign red eyes that flash in differentiating expressions from pain to pleasure. Shizuo's are a dumb brown color and ugly. Everything is ugly for a monster when comparing himself to the self-proclaimed god who isn't here anymore. Doesn't need to come back—where are these coming from all of a sudden—it's hard to breathe sometimes when alone and smoking one last cigarette only to reach for another and it hurts when the first week passes, empty stomach and empty phone with no new dials. He thinks it's completely selfish—wanting them to call. Someone, like Celty's text if he's up for going to the park ( _no thank you_ ) or even a text from Kadota about a movie he'd like to go to even if the places smell like butter and stick to his skin.

He doesn't expect anything from Izaya. Not in between the drags of cigarette breaks days stretching on end when his stomach doesn't feel anything but empty hollow dragging cold dark sticky whatever it is until he thinks he can't breathe anymore. Izaya he loves and sometimes—not so often nowadays—he's sure that Izaya at least tolerates him enough. It's always too much for even consideration of a monster like him, with big scary teeth and finger painting smiles. Shizuo finds himself absurdly lucky as he starts to throw out foods like pudding containers and popcorn bags when the sweet smell of his microwave is disgusting and he doesn't want to breathe in butter or packet foods. They're all so heavy in his stomach when he does and by the time the first mouthful is down there's this new not quite familiar feeling of being a failure and disgusting for eating whatever.

The cities build on the roads of every little thought popping into his head be it any time of the day or never sleeping for a night or two when the second week comes and not a single call from Izaya his bed doesn't even feel the same anymore. It's not his bed if he sits on the couch or takes up a new hobby of touring the city streets of veins in the dead of night, walking to jogging to just run off some extra steam and before the week is up he has a habit of going out at least once a night in reminder that Izaya is supposed to be busy and can't contact him. When it all works so perfectly the ache isn't as bad and his anger doesn't break stupid things and the toothbrush next to his doesn't feel so empty and then the days are finally starting to break off into nights. All up until week three, heading toward the end with loneliness a learned friend-companion-rival of his takes Izaya's spot like it does with Celty who's too busy, everyone else busy.

And then it starts crashing when Sunday comes, because Shinra texts him asking how Izaya's doing, saying he hasn't heard from him in a couple days and—his phone clatters against the wall with a sizable hole. Because it's not—he...he—

He doesn't know why.

Shinra's saying something on the phone but reality is coming back too fast from narrating in his head over ticking seconds of trains derailing. It's just because Izaya has taken up calling Shinra or texting him, even Celty, but forgetting conveniently that Shizuo exists back in his own apartment.

No one has noticed that Shizuo hasn't left his apartment for a week with the exception of work and the days are listless in getting home and doing nothing. Waiting maybe for his phone to ring zooming in on the fast lane to a one-way ticket to finally talking to Izaya because he misses him so much that it actually hurts and the bed isn't the same with just one person lying around being useless and heavy enough to make the box springs creak and groan and the air doesn't smell like cigarettes. Fast fast fast—eating is a chore and heavy monsters—don't bother, no contact from boyfriends-break-ups-ending soon. He'll wait, give Izaya the benefit of the doubt because he's in a torturous state of mind.

So heavy. So ugly and inhuman and wasteful and worthless. All these stupid little things and the echoes of hearing whatever comes to mind in self-imposed (or deserved) isolation come from stemming habits. Echoing in steam from showers empty enough to have no city lights on pathways of veins lighting up with the buzz of not eating for a day. Dizzy, but restless and beautiful and a step closer to at least coping with the pain of not hearing much of anything or seeming to find a reason. He's not normally this burned out. Moments of clarity come too little too lingering and fading into nonexistence for surely there must be a reason why Izaya doesn't call and Shinra leaves messages to give him a call.

Shizuo learns how to exist. Well, he knows how to zoom fast without looking but race car drivers don't think and talk fast so he has to improvise with running faster at nights increasing to a jog twice a day and still working for Tom who hasn't asked as much anymore. Week three is forgetting anything that hurts, taking in the appreciative nature of having a relationship and if Izaya wants to call it quits because monsters don't deal in this sort of shit and his brain is as unsteady as fuck (maybe he knows it too) then it'll be okay. Fine.

But he's not.

His phone rings, looking at the number it's hidden and he bets that it _has_ to be Izaya but for some reason maybe his mind is too gone when he can't and doesn't pick up the phone. Sunday night he gets a call, too tired to deal with himself and not feeling the same anymore as a confident and capable being when he hurts too many people he cares about. Kasuka needn't know and no one really needs to care all that much. He can handle this as long as it doesn't hurt for too much longer when the ache is a dull or sharp one depending on himself and whether or not the transgression of moving too quickly and crashing cars on highways of static electricity and not enough to drink is unforgivable. Changing lanes, painting lines, whatever it takes to feel normal again and this week he'll try to be better. He's tired and the bed isn't so appealing as it is a reminder that Izaya has chosen what he's doing and that's perfectly okay. Shizuo can look angry and normal on the outside but on the _inside_ there is nothing he's seen quite like this. Messy paint splatters everywhere.

A beautiful mess.

And still not good enough.

By the time it's next Saturday and Shizuo feels dead down to the core of his very monster being (and still huge, bigger than six stories tall and on the edge of the skyscraper, he hasn't _not_ considered) the possibilities of when he thinks Izaya will be coming back. Four weeks, five weeks in time? Enough to consider the counting seconds as another means of telling him that it's hopeless to keep trying in wanting more than just consoling whatever lonely thoughts he has to get to sleep? It seems that way when the nights are spent aching when he tosses and turns and his joints feel loose like strings of cheese (ninety calories each for the low-fat skim) and jello (five calories for one shot of no bullet to the skull but there are times he _thinks_ ) holding him together in a wiry frame. He just doesn't see it.

And today all he wants to do is sleep (his phone rings, again) because Tom says to take the day off—he doesn't look so good, what's going on Shizuo—he says he doesn't need it there's a chance to enjoy a little break. Probably not likely with as much as he has to think about whether or not there's a choice of willingly participating in the rot of his own mind in every single silent second. The phone rings, buzzing away to the silly tune in his pocket that sounds horrible and godawful nonsense that buzzes like every unknown call without a voice message and straight to questioning the integrity of his lack of interest or having a change of heart from the unknown caller. He knows who it is, probably.

The ringtone starts again, pitching into high chiming notes of cheesy music that Izaya probably has put on his phone and programmed the entire thing to piss him off. Lying in bed without the covers, gooseflesh rising tall and stiff in the colder air of the apartment even if it's turning into warm hazy summertime afternoon. There's nothing like waiting for the flashing screen to turn itself off, eyes glaring holes of boredom and keyed tiredness into conveying that he can't answer the phone today and tomorrow won't be available either.

Neither is available for crashing cars into train wrecks turning into churning molten ash and oil, burning and burning just beneath his veins when the stupid ringtone keeps going. The second missed call today and his walls are breathing into the empty highways tracing down the skin of his forearm with the pale flesh of underneath traced by his blunt fingernails. Just the way Izaya likes to touch at times and trace every living denial of veins bursting through corded muscles and iron skin like a machine wanting to feel human with every soft breath Izaya gives and takes from his lungs.

The phone comes to a screeching halt crashing with oil fires and gasoline spilling, high-speed chases only beginning in the sound of low rumbling in his ears when he growls to himself, bored and frustrated tempted to turn off his phone but the attachment is like a cigarette glowing between the coals of his fingers and the emptiness of his mouth. Again the ringtone climbs as soon as Shizuo finally has the space in between his fingers sticking hot and fiery into the fatty tissue of his brain, waiting for the thoughts to cool without an extinguisher and no hope of salvaging the oil fire like spilling blood.

Then a click after the last tired ring. Please leave a message to get back to there's no one around to listen to the right person and don't say who you are—he knows. Of course he knows why Izaya wants to break up with him and is it supposed to be sad or just disgusting that he's taken this long to figure it out there's a story to notice and tell when Shizuo stares up at the ceiling. Listening to the voice repeat the same automated message that he's had for a long time, never changed from days of hating instead of dating that will soon return one-sided affection not enough to keep away the parts of him that are undesirable in an understatement to _please_ start over he's sick of realizing that he keeps wasting time. The message has an unmistakeable sound of a growl, parasites in mind and Shizuo knows it because he remembers always being angry whenever Izaya decided to try and call and now he finds himself at an interesting standstill.

" _Shizuo,"_ it starts and immediately he knows the fire is starting to quell itself, no fuel left but the residue makes a sticky sour sensation slip down his throat and seize his esophagus. His stomach is already throwing a riot of searing insides and walls slipping down thinking he's built them back up before hearing Izaya's voice from his cell phone. _"It's been a long time since we last spoke, ne? Four weeks, but you already knew that I'd be gone for some time if you actually paid attention to me."_ It's been four weeks tomorrow is week five there's nothing quite like being in a phantom relationship living in a heavy body and wondering why these people are contacting him now when he doesn't want anything to do with him they're busy he can't bother them he'll fix it just please please please go away now and don't come looking for a reason.

He sits up, the first time today, feeling his bones protest wondering when his liver has started to hurt so much and it's all in his head anyway so he won't bother with the sharp ache, fading into dullness akin to the pain that sits at the bottom of his spine. Today is definitely a result of being too lazy yesterday and he is meant to run today earlier in the morning where no one can see how hideous he is and it's so _stupid_ he forgets these things. The only purposeful thing he's done is ignore and now he's going to be too big to fit and an empty bed doesn't belong to him get _up_ already, breathe, ignore the fact Izaya's talking on his phone there is simply no one there the fire is dying and he's been in enough trouble without needing anyone to witness his latest place set ablaze.

Shizuo's feet slide to the ground, slow breaths and forcing himself to move faster before he derails and defaults into going back to bed when he's sick with being lazy and Tom put him off for now probably to find a replacement. All these things once upon a time sound crazy but now they're there, comforting as he steadies himself off the mattress and up onto his feet where his head rushes and his hearing submerges under heavy pressure. Stars burst in front of his eyes and he feels the vertigo—the floor rising to meet him, bubbling beneath his feet ready to take its victim waiting so long before it crumbles under his weight. Too bad he doesn't last for long because even if his chin reaches his puffy chest it still makes his feet falter and sway to catch his balance with one hand striking the wall and deciding that the bathroom is the best option is the one that comes to mind after a thick layering of too many screaming insults. For this being everyday concepts they don't faze him as much as stumbling to the bathroom connected to his bedroom as the only good thing that comes in mornings where he has to be empty first.

One click of the light switch and blinding lights sizzle into his corneas it's such a shame he can't admire the sky of bursting stars from the darkness of no vision and hitting the floor. At least his jaw catches him, clipping the edge of the toilet seat where shaky fingers move the lid up to allow a little more relief for hot skin burning cold on porcelain shiny and clean. Gravity tugs him down, easy enough to do catching on a scale saying he's sixty kilograms instead of seventy from one month ago on the vague reminder Izaya is fifty-eight kilograms and somehow it makes him want to laugh. Barely, skimming on cold tiles feeling the vomit sour and retching, somehow somewhere disappearing saliva lines trekking into the clean smooth feel of porcelain and burning in his eyes.

" _You're angry because I haven't called, ne?"_ Izaya still chimes in from the bedroom, forgotten or not in this round of dodgy gagging, nausea swelling and fat fingers sliding their way into an empty mouth with the stench of blood in the air. He's drowning in the sea of gagging, harsh chokes rippling into early morning wake up calls and absent realizations starting to salivate into the toilet bowl. Besides the scale set to take count of every brick invested with city lights trying to make a pathway of blood and cars crashing is where the bricks end meeting pavement concrete in the fingernail marks that haven't healed yet. _"Don't you remember what I told you? Or, it's more that you decided to get in an argument with me. Of course you did, you always want to be angry at me for something."_

Izaya doesn't need to know—he knows the right answer, anyway. Amidst the sounds of retching and Izaya's taunting lilt of a voice reminding Shizuo where exactly he falls to because he's not exactly standing to sit in the spotlight of trying ambiguity. It's not going so well for a work in progress erected and slowly taking itself apart with the choking that worsens and dry walls of his throat burning as they catch resistance and irritation setting in. It's not so bad anyway if it's getting rid of a bad thing by purging what's not supposed to be in his stomach last night's dinner of a teeny tiny portion in comparison he should have known better not to eat it but he did and now he's here, the slick rot of vomit coming out of his throat going so far as to make sure it splatters back in his face as soon as it hits the empty bottom of a toilet bowl.

" _Learn to pick up the phone, idiot."_ Just a few taps away from realizing the truth Shizuo's lucky he didn't answer because Izaya already has what he wants to say and it's best that Shizuo doesn't hear it but the phone is just too far away to break and he's still throwing up where his eyes are stinging and his mouth is on fire. Liver, stomach, lungs, spleen, hell—everything hurts in the cramping sort of fashion of trying to do too much or just eating too much like last night is bigger than the size of his fist hitting his stomach when the mirror is glaring right back at him once again. Shinra may have called and Celty probably did except their numbers do not exist on a scale of self-sacrifice and crashing into the course of a rocky downhill slide. It's only so far from the bottom Shizuo considers himself there while he gags on the smell of vomit on his bathroom floor.

" _Anyway, I need to get going,"_ one more heave, dry and aching and snot mixing into the yellow and green bile splashing against his insides to the toilet. He reminds himself that the circuitry is still the same but the mechanisms of coping with little chips in the wall are different when they change the game like hearing his boyfriend hang up the title and proclaim that he should have known better from the beginning to ever try being with a monster of Shizuo's capacity. Which is fine, because Shizuo is no ordinary monster and if the sounds of vomiting doesn't fill the air then it's the silence of acknowledging just how worthless he is.

Izaya's voice sounds fragile like the silence in the absence of any fitting reply.

" _...I miss you, Shizuo."_

Not the lungfuls of air that come in heaving breaths of silence and ugly mantras repeating in his head pain sparking plugs and skipping beats of an uneven pulse. The blood remaining hammers along under clammy skin, cooling as soon as Shizuo's slipping, fingers twitching in their grasp he can't keep like the lies he tells himself that he's going to be fine and of course his friends care if he has any now. Or a job, which he would like at least but there are certain things non-negotiable with the passage of lights buzzing out flickering and wavering as his consciousness makes a full circle coming in and out with struggled breaths. He's the crash of cars and bodies and continuum making a final turn and missing the full front of the mistakes he keeps making one after another. It's the reason he totals and burns, smoke rising in a hazy sign of surrender when the monster falls and succumbs to the tile of the bathroom floor.

" _See you later."_

This is the first time he's ever had to expel his own brand of punishment until his stomach becomes a shriveled up little thing. Pathetic, really. And even as the chill creeps over his skin with eyes stitching themselves shut in preparation for the later parts he'll have to remember why he's doing this in the first place and what winding path he's taking instead of staying on any sort of rationality—except there is none for a monster, so it's not fair to spare any for him and pretend that it's okay. Maybe it's best if he knows exactly how guilty he is, nothing coming from his stomach because it's too late and he ate it and it's there swimming in the fat piling up on him pound per pound he keeps messing up and Izaya would laugh at his failed attempts of trying to be less of a nuisance and more nonexistent at best.

The light, floaty feeling of being weightlessly unconscious doesn't translate to keeping away the reality of how stupid he is for being this stubborn. It does, however, make a good excuse to lie on the floor and not do anything when all he does is wrong and if he could just not exist then maybe he wouldn't have to feel the guilt clawing at him and ripping holes through organs and fat. Neither will it get him anywhere without dragging him behind because he'll protest every action caught between strength and willpower where he can't honestly think for himself—how stupid must one be to _try_ to pretend that he's anything useful at all—amidst the fat clinging to every inch of organs and rotting away.

Izaya hates him. There is no point in doubting what he can hear—it doesn't need to be his boyfriend's voice. He knows how hateful he is for the mess he has made and cleaning it up means getting rid of the problem which lies in being a monster.

 _Worthless,_ the voice in his head hisses. _Useless, stupid, ugly, fat, stupid fucking monster, protozoan idiot, devolved piece of shit—_

It sounds like Izaya, too.

* * *

The welcome of the airport's lights is debatable. After a long flight moving hours in time to the present and still exhausting as Izaya remembers to wake up because after six weeks the trip to Russia has been concluded. Six weeks and he hasn't heard a thing from Shizuo, which is strange and he finds it increasingly concerning because his boyfriend is one for initiating contact even if he's just going to the grocery store. And then he would've teased Shizu-chan mercilessly, laughing at the childish qualities of an overprotective monster until the threat of being squeezed to death was too unsettling to keep laughing at. Izaya doesn't feel the same way when he grabs his coat with him and pulls it on, eyes drooping and knowing it's no good to be this tired when he gets off a plane, which is why he's waiting for Shizu-chan and answers to come with on the ride back home.

Crowds of people greet him at two in the morning. Not like Tokyo has any need for sleep when it's bright and shiny, colorful enough to keep even monsters awake all the time until they collapse and hog all of the bed because it's more convenient, in Shizu-chan's ridiculous argument that ensues. Izaya blinks to keep himself awake, searching the significantly lessened crowd of people as minutes pass and they start to leave. Any other time he would be watching them reunite with others, from family to lovers or friends with a keen sort of interest—for now he would rather not focus too much energy on anything else than Shizuo. After all, he's had six weeks of people and six weeks of no boyfriend to speak of whatsoever.

His eyes keep scanning and over the sea of people in darker colors, some standing out in brighter neon clothing, he can't find any sign of the characteristic bartender uniform and bleach blond hair anywhere in the airport terminal. Which is odd, knowing that Shizu-chan would be sure or perhaps he's too thick-headed to know where to look when Izaya has already texted him the details. Again, without a reply, but the more important thing is not finding his boyfriend to meet with him and take his luggage back with him. The cast on his arm is soon to come off after two months of wearing it closing in on three and it reminds him with an itching sensation prickling to the back of his mind that he hasn't been close to Shizuo in that amount of time. Mainly in the beginning after Shinra reset his arm, the result of an accident and a fight and Izaya's known to hold grudges at times when he can milk a response out of Shizuo. Guilty as charged.

But he doesn't expect Shizuo to withdraw like he did and possibly now, refusing to even touch him which is ridiculous because Izaya knows how much his boyfriend likes to hold him and be held and when he refuses to look at Izaya by the time he leaves for Russia, the nagging feeling isn't just a feeling. It's an astute observation that there is something wrong with the beast when he doesn't say much more than an apology as Izaya leaves and there is the slight quiet admission to himself on the plane halfway through the trip that Izaya stepped over the line with being angry. He doesn't expect to stay in Russia for six weeks, meaning he has to come to accept that regretting being mad at his boyfriend does exist in his head and it's the thought that refuses to let him sleep at night when his Shizu-chan won't answer the phone.

Shinra hasn't heard a word from him. Not for the past three weeks and Celty says he's okay, but she's worried and she says Izaya needs to talk to him because Izaya's done something wrong and now she's upset. Being that Izaya has no idea of what she's talking about besides their fight before his leave it exacerbates any hope of having help with understanding a monster when Shinra is frustrated with Celty's anger and takes it out on Izaya as well. He tells him to figure it out or Celty will keep being upset and he's always going to value Celty more than anything else, but it doesn't do anything to not say what Izaya is missing. Probably just an excuse to get back at Izaya—fine, be that way—but the best way to do it is _not_ through his boyfriend and six weeks of loneliness combined with the previous four of a strained relationship due to what is entirely his fault.

His fingers dig into the blue cast, a point of interest in many meetings with an unspoken threat of daring any of his clientele to ask what exactly happened. He has no interest in informing them of anything about him, much less of anyone when they try to trace his calls and come up with Shinra. They certainly learned a lesson or two in etiquette, or at least common sense if they really think they could stalk the world's best informant. Only now he doesn't feel anything like that, closer to a tired boyfriend waiting for his partner to show up and starting to question why Shizu-chan isn't there when they agreed he would be and it's not like Shizuo to suddenly skip out on him nor are the missed phone calls and the voice mails or the fact Shizu-chan's phone has been shut off up until he lost service on the plane and didn't try to get it back.

Izaya looks again, biting his lower lip in between his teeth and puffing a sigh as he keeps wandering, looking for Shizu-chan in that ridiculous bartender uniform of his that he's bound to be wearing this early in the morning and he doesn't see it—until his eyes catch a head of bleached hair and an unfamiliar attire with a certain noticeable quality.

To his confused and exhausted surprise, he finds the stranger more familiar than he'd rather like to (why would he think this ridiculous it's just Shizu-chan) and the fact that the strange set of clothes doesn't put him off should be alarming. When he looks he catches the beast's eye, stilled for several moments clock hands ticking by and he's not moving until Izaya watches the beast, eyes on him, shake his head and blink ever so slowly. Like he doesn't recognize Izaya, even if Izaya is still the same and maybe a few kilograms lighter, but that happens when doing business more than pleasure. He remembers the same irritated warnings from Shizu-chan about what will happen if he forgets to eat so much, recalling them with a faint amusement except for now, where he watches in isolating internal quiet as his brain reaches a conclusion that doesn't quite catch up with the rest of him.

"Welcome back," arms are around him and so much _thinner_ than he remembers and Izaya feels the grip isn't the same as before but it's still Shizu-chan and he's missed him too much to pick out all the little details. But instead of a kiss like they always do, even if it's in public and it's past any reasonable hour to be awake Izaya finds himself in just a hug, arms carefully around him and holding him in place while Shizu-chan is quiet, not close enough to wrap Izaya tightly in his arms like he always does or kisses him no matter where they are or what time it is. For now Izaya can console the quiet complaint in his brain with breathing in the warmth, fainter than he's remembered, and the smell of his monster at the side of his throat, resting his head on a shoulder with too many sharp points.

"I..." Izaya tries to say, the silence stretching on and tight around his throat so he opts for silence, adding on to the confused feeling of missing a piece of his boyfriend. Maybe it's just the jet lag sinking into his bones and making him tired, barely able to stand up while he holds on to his boyfriend who is smaller than he remembers and everything about him seems off like no street lights on a roadway to a familiar home he—can't imagine if it's only him or not. Thinking is too hard after he's not had his fill of Shizu-chan for too long and has gone without the same quiet voice for even longer and so what if it's different because Shizu-chan is probably tired too and there's a cab waiting outside for them, most likely.

So he has to let go now, remind himself that there's more time for this his humans don't deserve a free show anyway. And letting go means the skim of hands over his back, too careful to be caressing or considerate but pulled back like Shizu-chan's done something wrong Izaya can't seem to figure out what it is. Just careful rewiring of circuitry when Izaya pulls back, a small twitch of lips offered to a boyfriend who isn't even looking at him but lower, downcast eyes draped with fatigue. The connection doesn't last—Izaya reaches to hold Shizuo's hand, as a sign of asking because he's never been one for communication, but it doesn't end the way he expects it to be the tangle of fingers and the feel of a warm palm against his.

Instead, Shizu-chan pulls away, offering a blunt smile that feels too forced painting his face with the same grace as his fingers smear the pull of his lips back without white teeth and dots of the regular Shizu-chan. They're exhausted, winding down weary steps taken to the baggage claim where Shizu-chan is typically the one to grab the bags which are admittedly heavy so it takes one or two glances back when Izaya thinks of offering to carry his things when his boyfriend stumbles.

This is unusual.

Izaya finds the silence on the way back more unnerving than it ever should have been.

Especially when Shizuo doesn't say anything at all.

* * *

Tensions are tighter pulled taught and stirring for trouble that's carefully stepped around, broken asphalt lining the way to bed Izaya means to sleep with and not just in but there are reasons why it doesn't end like that. Shizu-chan mumbles something about taking the couch, no brush of hands no explanations just piling suitcases up and closing the door to the bedroom behind him while his feet echo in the soft sounds of taking the steps down the stairs. Izaya prefers his large bed at his apartment so they're here, an extra twenty minutes deducted from the time able to be spent sleeping away what little of the night is left. Except now the problem is Shizuo, leaving without a word to dim lights and no kiss, no meaning of goodnight and it's all wrong with the stop signs pulling and he's still going away when Izaya can't hear his bare feet on the steps anymore.

Having the large bed to himself feels daunting when he curls up in empty sheets, glancing to the left where Shizuo is supposed to be and his arms aren't supposed to be this empty and left turning in circles while his sleepy thoughts run on repeat rampaging over the idea that there's something obviously wrong. And it's his fault, calculating the distance between them and the time it will take to fall asleep (like he can anymore, it's never the same in an empty bed) because Shizu-chan is just downstairs and oddly silent when he should have been holding onto Izaya with a vengeance. It's just a game they play whenever Izaya leaves town for a little while, never meaning to be gone for so long and Shizuo knows Izaya can't put him at risk and it leaves holes in places he never means to look before he trips over them and his own excuses of why he's still here. Or why he's waiting for Shizuo to come to his senses and come to bed when this bed doesn't feel like anything more than just a waiting place stuck in an in between intersection all lights turned red and there's a wreckage waiting to happen.

What is he supposed to say—can he apologize is it worth it what has he done _why—_ to Shizuo, who looks too tired to hold a conversation this late and explain why he's not up here and in bed? The couch, while made of a satisfying number of zeroes on the price tag and certainly comfortable enough to take afternoon naps on Shizuo with, isn't the same as the bed Shizu-chan likes to spread his legs out on and take Izaya over his chest and sleep breathing in the scent of unwashed skin and drying kisses. What makes a beast stop and understand when Izaya doesn't understand Shizu-chan is that he's unpredictable and he can blame it on being wild without rules or guidelines Izaya doesn't follow either but then surely it would make sense Shizuo wouldn't be able to understand a thing—only that's not true, either.

His fingers reach to the ceiling, arm outstretched and he can imagine without having to close his eyes the blanket of his boyfriend over him, grabbing his fingers that curl into his palm and it's much warmer than the night air outside of the blanket which is where Izaya never deigns to remain for long. Shizu-chan is so much warmer than the blanket anyway and he likes it only to trap it in and keep it for himself, curled in and never dismissing the opportunity to hold his boyfriend over him and keep him there for as long as possible. Unfortunately there are limitations involving workdays and pesky clients that keep him from bed and away for too long when Shizu-chan is much more preferable to be the one to try groping him while he's working.

Nothing is distracting enough apart from cold fingers counting dots on the ceiling that start to flash behind Izaya's eyes when he blinks. There is definitely a burn whenever he does and sleep feels too far away to consider so ignoring his body's protests comes naturally. Blankets shift on and off like the light of the lamp nearby does with the changing tides of Izaya either making up his mind or making the bed just as messy as his thoughts are and not nearly as cold. Izaya settles into the state of blankets over his stomach, feet exposed because he's burning with some kind of fever and his phone keeps telling hm that it's only been an hour since he's come back and maybe he caught something on the plane that's deciding to inflict him now.

The least he can do is afford to give himself some time to rest, even if the blankets are too cold and the air is too stuffy and sharp when it makes jagged edges along the insides of his mouth, since his nose is too blocked up and his eyes are burning and wet when he opens them over and over again. Almost like he's expecting something to appear and make the onset of a cold go away and really it's just how dry the air inside his bedroom is and of course the door is shut so it makes sense that the rest of his apartment would be better. He can fix it, just later when he has no desire to move and no feeling of being able to fall asleep comfortably. It's an odd mix of stale white noise buzzing in his ears and the ache of lying in one spot for too long, staring at the ceiling that doesn't look like much when he can't see beyond the wetness of his eyes stinging into the pillows.

It'll be better in the morning, it always is.

Only it's different when there isn't someone to wake up to.

* * *

The night drags on, caught in a mix of half sleep half restlessness as Izaya stays in a state of not quite asleep nor awake. It's a sticky, uncomfortable limbo that keeps white noise buzzing into hours that reach early, early morning and the sun doesn't rise for another hour or two so there's no point in trying to reason with himself that he's going to half to get up soon. Today isn't a good day for work, not when his head is starting to ache and his body can't decide if it's hot or cold or missing Shizuo which it _is_ only there's nothing happening to seal the holes in the pavement that keep his eyes closed and turn off the incessant outpour of incoherent thoughts rambling and ranting inside his ears.

Until he hears it. The sound of soft scrapes echoing down the hallway, muffled against the bedroom door and Izaya hears them for several more minutes before deciding it's not just the apartment walls settling with the change of temperatures in the night.

And too bad it happens as soon as Izaya forgets he's sleeping (in a bed for two) and alone for the night.

The sound continues, Izaya coming to wakefulness and still fatigued, yawning with the careful push to sit up and rest for a bit, eyes refocusing and catching the sound that can't be imagined—it sounds too erratic, too vague and Izaya's a light sleeper anyway so it won't matter if he checks it out because at this point he's not going to get sleep anyway. And he can blame it on the rough night and jet lag for not having the urge to head back to sleep, a sinus headache developing and pulsing at the bridge of his nose as he slides out of bed to stretch his ankles before he has enough confidence to stand without falling over. From there it's the slow steps to the door, slowly becoming more awake only to find himself at a standstill when his mind is still exhausted and his body says _sleep_ without inhibitors like loneliness and a censor over his thoughts still in the haze of not entirely awake and or aware of anything he does. It's all by feeling, something he'd rather not admit to if he happens to remember himself by morning.

Down the hallway, Izaya squints to see the light of moonlight coming in, knowing the only room with a window and seeing the door open to it to be the bathroom where he catches the sound, this time more audible, with the unsettling familiarity of choking. By then he's moving down the hallway, slowed by curiosity and thought processes in his brain ending short of making suggestions—Shizuo—to questions and then circling back again because he's cold and more of a mess than he'd like to be.

"Shizu-chan...?" Izaya calls, hands fumbling to the light that's blinding for less than a second until it suffers a premature death and Izaya's eyes refocus to the dim lighting in the bathroom. All he can see is the silhouette of his boyfriend, who looks to be on the floor and holding himself up by the toilet, where Izaya notes the slimmer form of his monster while he grasps the sides of the toilet coming to be smaller than Izaya knows Shizuo to be and he can't see much but his mind is already churning out thoughts, settling on the closest one available sticking to his tongue as he hears the sound again, from its source.

Shizuo glances at him, almost through him and he probably is—Izaya doesn't think the chill in his skin has anything to do with it—when he suddenly turns back to the toilet, choking and gagging and no time to spare on the strange look in his eyes Izaya sees and doesn't register as anything familiar. But soon enough Izaya's on him, kneeling to the ground where his boyfriend hoists himself up over the toilet lid and makes the same gagging noises, coughing as they stick in his throat and burn down the trails left on his cheeks.

All he can think of with Izaya's hand on his back and the other coming his shoulder is that Izaya shouldn't be seeing this mess of mistakes and he's not supposed to hold him like he means something it's all disgusting and sour with the taste of vomit at the back of his throat. Holding the toilet like a lifeline he keeps coughing, Izaya's words ringing in his ears— _are you okay?—_ no, he's not he hasn't been this is far too long it's over between them anyway go back go away while he recedes into the fat tucked into his skin with aching precision that just won't _leave._

"Shizuo," Izaya speaks his name and it's a roll of thunder, waiting to punish knowing Shizuo is the one who's done this to himself and Izaya who hasn't called and he's ignoring everything from the messages to the blue of the cast that's all his fault. Except gagging and choking in front of Izaya is much worse than it's ever meant to be and he doesn't want to feel those tiny fingers digging into his shoulder as Izaya wraps himself around something too fat to be human and too disgusting to be a monster. He's only a lowly mix of the in between and frustrating because he can't change and things like love are never what he deserves when it's only this and staring at his reflection tattooed on the backs of his eyelids.

The same voice starts up again in his ears, hissing as Izaya speak and holds him with skinny arms and an alarming faraway feel of pretending to care.

"Guh," Shizuo feels the saliva trailing down his chin, trying to shift away from Izaya who gets the hint and rises back up again, sitting on the edge of the bathtub _(too fat to fit in)_ and leaning over kicking him out like he should have done a long time ago back when Shizuo is too stupid to figure out the warning signs of overturning every single thing he's tried to do right because he—can't do anything at all—makes too many mistakes. "Ha—ack!"

Izaya regards him with eyes that burn into his skin looking paler than normal and it's fine, he's fine just go away now _please_ understand that he can't—"It hurts, doesn't it." Cool, calm, _normal_ and still perfect in every way Shizuo sees him even if he can't bring himself to look at his boyfriend who's obviously exhausted and still holding onto him with the hand smoothing over the shirt hiding the fat on his back, just over ridges of his spine being pushed out of his skin.

"Hold still, Shizuo," he says, close and too much so for comfort and not enough where the parts of Shizuo's brain start to rebel against the ideas that he's actually worth more than the things he breaks and he's making nothing but more mess out of himself, eyes wet and a disgusting compilation of hopeless pity. But Izaya's fingers move to his jaw, Izaya sliding into view where he can get a full glimpse of the disgusting weight that keeps Shizuo down and on the cold floor while his skin is ice and Izaya is made of fire and it's still his fault, keeping him up too late and infecting him with the incurable disease of being this worthless to not notice the fingers tapping at his mouth. That is, until they slide into his mouth tasting of salt and Izaya keeps his eyes on him, watching and he shouldn't, not as his fingers move over a dry tongue (no water for how long he's losing track of time) to the back of his throat—it's only fair he gets a chance at redeeming himself from this—

"Gah," Shizuo chokes over the two fingers there, itching and aching and salt rising to sting just like the nausea welling in the pit of his stomach splashing waves against his esophagus where he can't pull away and Izaya's still watching him as he shudders over the slick feel of mucus and guilt of _this—"ekk!"_

Izaya keeps watching as he vomits, bile staining a dark brown mixing in with green and the remnants of an undigested dinner coming back, splashing in the water below and a shade of irony to remind Shizuo that he's still here and he's destroying everything he touches when he keeps doing things like this. But it's fine, maybe, he'll just have to clean it out and he can't think exactly for far too long because another wave comes up and Izaya's fingers are wiped on his own shirt, coming to stroke his head in a notion that's cruel and wonderful for making the ways Shizuo hates himself come to the light of the moon romanticizing throwing up over a toilet bowl with his boyfriend—maybe not—pretending to care. The sentiment is appreciated, in a far off corner of Shizuo's mind not occupied with the painful sting of nausea and bile clogging his lungs, choking off any sort of lifeline left to determine if he has any worth to the thoughts that remind him that he's _nothing_ more than a stain of existence that refuses to give up and let go already.

And once upon a long time ago, he wouldn't have ever believed such a thing, not especially with Izaya stroking his hair, warm fingers and soothing him with words that are meant for someone better than this. Maybe if he gathers the courage to get over sounding like an idiot he'll ask why Izaya tries to bother when he has other things to do and he's the one who...he...

Passing out could be another way of his brain telling him to give up that hopeless notion.

* * *

"Sleep," his eyes open to the blurs of darkness twisting and contorting to light, the form of Izaya coming to shape with his voice amongst the dull hum in his ears. Being awake in the existing window of time excludes him from having to think too much, focusing more on the dryness of his throat and the fact it tastes sour and burns from his nose down to his stomach aching with a heavy sensation of emptiness. But what Izaya tells him to do he can't—not as he sees his boyfriend, only moments from when Izaya dips forward, his weight making the mattress of his bed move when he kisses Shizuo's forehead and brushes away stray hairs with warm fingers. He's never recalled Izaya having warm fingers unless they've been in his, but his are a temperature between ice and turning a dark shade of purple from how cold it is.

As soon as the words come to mind his mouth is too dry to voice them, so watching will suffice in catching Izaya with tired eyes (his fault his fault his fault) and a hand on Shizuo's cheek, resting without the intention of leaving because it's too heavy for that and he can't start to think when he's cornered like this and he knows his— _Izaya_ is going to be angry. There are no apologies which becomes the waking world of reality, too tired to go back to sleep and too exhausted to push himself away from the touch he's been craving for longer than needed to admit to and phone calls end in the same ways oil fires die out without the chance of oxygen swallowed up by vomit and pulling too tight on his vocal cords.

Not this again—it's the same, even with Izaya's eyes that are saying too much and he doesn't want to—doesn't deserve to—hear it. He's been moving in reverse using an old scale at his home but more the measure of progressing into silence with how loosely his clothes fit. The bartender outfits filling the majority of his closet don't fit and he shouldn't say anything to Kasuka, thinking maybe it's not so bad if he just keeps them because they hang off him too loosely to look presentable and while they're not the only clothes he wears the only thing that fits is an old shrunken shirt with shrunken pants from his high school years. Back when he—

"Shizuo," Izaya brings him back with the too gentle tone of his voice, eyes on him and observing every mistake in the making and Izaya will see if he already doesn't because he doesn't realize that all Shizuo does is _wrong._ "How long has this been going on?" He knows he knows—of course he does Shizuo is too obvious for his own good and so _useless_ to not keep Izaya from concerning himself with it and it doesn't matter at all if his boyfriend is holding onto him because Izaya's not his anymore and it's been a long statement before of exactly why that he can recite in his head more easily than the last time he's eaten anything more than the size of half of a handful.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ reasons to think that Izaya should concern himself with these things and he's moving in reverse scraping the roads of lies and everything he can paint on his tongue just for the satisfaction of feeling something more than the angry churn of his stomach disagreeing with everything he does. It's his fault and he knows it, knows that he's too stupid to come up with anything and swallowing the bitter taste in his throat with Izaya watching, Izaya caring over him, it makes the nausea return with the punctures of guilt ripping the seams of his stomach apart.

"You've lost a lot of weight, Shizuo." And there it is. The only thing to chase after the heavy blow to his ringing ears is the drop of a breath, weighing heavily on his stomach and squeezing his lungs tight thinking he's done this all wrong with the oil filling up where his lungs should be. "Have you been sick this entire time? Is that why I haven't heard anything from Shinra?" His tone takes a turn for the worse, sharp and biting and Shizuo knows what he's done now and there's no pride in making his boyfriend angry when it's all his fault and apologizing—he doesn't know where to begin. All he knows is that it's still his fault. It starts with the buzz of Izaya waiting in silence wires under his skin connecting and rerouting to keep his heart still pounding with as weak as it is after gasoline fires ending in dying flames.

"Shizu-chan," Izaya thumbs Shizuo's eyelid, calm and quiet and never the turmoil of turning his insides out just to rip off the fat that's there and every imperfection (there aren't any on him, Izaya never had any to begin with) scraped off chipping skin and facades to end up here. Wrecked and ruined and put under the spotlight of a watchful boyfriend who he hates seeing upset when he frowns and Shizuo's brain doesn't have an answer ready. There aren't any, since he hasn't seen anyone in a while and Tom has probably already replaced him and he's fine, he's fine, it doesn't hurt—"You should have said something last night instead of keeping this from me."

"'m fine," he musters up the courage to _lie_ to his Izaya, the guilt digging itself deeper with the hard swallow of saliva tinged with mucus and the disgusting feel of slime slicking up the inside of his throat. But with the way he sounds, hoarse and tired, he doesn't make any argument to be convincing it's not okay to be missing Izaya when he's right here in front of him and it's not okay to be this stupid. "Don't worry about it."

Izaya doesn't look convinced. Doubtful, skeptical, it's all the same tied in a pretty bundle of lying and guilt wrapped up nice and constricted to keep Shizuo from saying anything unnecessary. They shouldn't even be having this argument, Shizuo should have never brought this up nor should he have been making so much noise last night. It's the only reason Izaya helped him throw up, because of how much of a nuisance he is he's been trying to get rid of every part that doesn't fit and Izaya only furthers that fact. "You don't look fine, Shizu-chan," Izaya's thumb over his eyelid moves to his brow, keeping the same gentle insistence that means he wants to know more than what Shizuo lets on. Too bad Shizuo can't tell him anything—most of it being utterly worthless background information caught in the flurry of wanting to be better too fast and not following any signs that he's already been caught in circles since the beginning. "You're sick, pale, and I could carry you to the bedroom without dropping you." There's a joke hidden in there, lost in translation from Izaya to unresponsive idiots who can't be human.

"It's just the flu, something strong enough to get a monster like me."

It doesn't mean an invitation for Izaya to bend forward again and kiss him like it's going to be just fine. Nor does it offer the slow and sweet taste of Izaya's lips just clinging to his, wet and warm and everything perfect in Shizuo's definition. Which makes it wrong because Shizuo doesn't deserve this from a boyfriend taking his time to dump him where he belongs on the streets hit by the truck of reality striking too fast meaning he's nothing more than just some trash left out to rot in the sun. He should have enjoyed this before, not cursing it now because Izaya won't let go and he's giving him things he'll never deserve and it's only to soften the blow of when Izaya notices how stupid scars on arms are from nonexistent problems.

Izaya pulls away before he slips off the sheets from his boyfriend, weariness marring the short smile that's for Shizu-chan as he slides in to rest against Shizuo with the lamp switching off, wrapping his arm around his boyfriend. All the while Shizuo feels Izaya's head against him, edges of his collarbone digging into the skin he's too fat and why would Izaya touch him? Even if he said he's sick and it's a lie just like every other complaint coming from his mouth and he shouldn't be holding Izaya, whispers of doubt and insults on his tongue sour with the feeling of exposing the diseased parts of his monster guts when he's not _worth_ any of the things Izaya gives to him.

Even after six weeks of being ignored knowing how close it is to being over and it _is_ when guilt is a frustrating source of tongue tying nonsense that comes out in pathetic excuses for wanting more than he can have. The voices that snap at him calling him the monster that causes these issues being too big too fat for the bed to sit up and he'll crush Izaya in his sleep and he can't do this because he shouldn't lie but it's his problem to deal with and Izaya doesn't need to deal with a childish _stupid, worthless, useless, freak, monster, disgusting_ fucking idiot and the blue cast tucked against him reminds him of everything he's done. Every last thing he's ruined with his hands scratching car tires scraping into crashing roads moving in reverse away from the fault that's his and he won't take responsibility for the blood he's shedding even if it's his own in the same effect that Izaya can only deal with so much from some monster too weak to be considered worth anything.

He doesn't deserve this kind of peace—Izaya lying next to him, fingers stroking down his side and lacing with his where the cast remains. He has no right (all fifty-five kilograms of him, thinking maybe maybe maybe he's just too— _fat_ ) to take this from Izaya when he's tired and just back from a flight and dealing with him for far too long.

But it's so _difficult_ to say no.

And it hurts even more.

* * *

 _Eating disorders are not only the most deadly of mental diseases, but ones people are less likely to talk about. There are resources for getting help, but do **not** force anyone to receive treatment. Eating disorders are not fixed by pills and therapy. Only when one reaches out and asks for help should one try to give what the survivor wants, not what you want. If someone you know is suffering, do what you can from what they ask you to do, even if it's hard and it could be as simple as listening to their pain. This is not a choice, this is a real disease that needs attention and care, not humiliation and embarrassment._

 _On a different topic, all I can really think is that maybe my writing isn't any good at all.  
_

 _...Thank you for reading._


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